


Hold It

by d_b_w



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Watersports, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_b_w/pseuds/d_b_w
Summary: When Mr. Stark tells Peter to hold something, he holds it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blewoutthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blewoutthestars/gifts).



“Hold that.”

One Saturday a month, Mr. Stark let Peter assist him in his laboratory. Mostly Peter was relegated to fetching and holding things, with the occasional foray into ducking and covering.

But since those things tended to be pieces of _the Iron Man suit,_ Peter was okay with not even being trusted as much as DUM-E.

(And sometimes the ducking-and-covering involved Mr. Stark pressed hot and heavy against Peter’s back, his goatee scratching the nape of Peter’s neck, which was definitely, definitely worth having to spend the next half hour positioned carefully on the other side of the workbench, hunched over and trying not to give his traitorous crotch any friction.)

This particular Saturday, Peter had been holding two pieces of plating at a very awkward angle way longer than normal. Mr. Stark kept muttering and adjusting Peter’s hands and muttering some more, and that would be great, really, except that Peter really kind of had to pee.

He tried to shift a little, subtly, to press his legs closer together, but even that tiny motion caught Mr. Stark’s attention.

“Hold _still,_ kid. This is important.”

Peter swallowed hard and nodded. He could feel a bead of sweat rolling down his back, between his shoulder blades, and had to fight back a shiver.

More muttering, another minute adjustment of Peter’s position, and then Mr. Stark picked up the thing he absolutely refused to let Peter call a sonic screwdriver again. At first all the touching had been a good distraction – fighting back arousal in the workshop was something Peter was very used to – but sometime in the last fifteen minutes even the smell of Mr. Stark’s cologne wasn’t enough to keep Peter’s mind off his bladder.

He just. . . he had to _go,_ and he couldn’t, and Mr. Stark said “important” and Peter wanted to be good, to _help,_ but he _needed to pee._

He must have shifted again, because Mr. Stark sighed and looked into his face again. “Look, if you can’t do this, I’ll get DUM-E over here. . .”

“No! I can do it! I promise!” Peter knew his eyes were too wide, frantic all out of proportion with the threat, but he pressed the pieces of plating closer together again and straightened up even as his bladder quaked and threatened to spill at the movement.

Mr. Stark’s returning gaze was coolly assessing, but after a minute he warmed, his mouth twitching up into a half-smile. “All right. But let me know when it gets to be too much.”

Peter nodded and tried to look confident that that wouldn’t be necessary.

It was totally going to be necessary. Peter tried taking shallower breaths so the waistband of his jeans wouldn’t press so tightly against his stomach; he tried doing long division in his head; nothing helped with his desperation at all, and when the next wave hit he felt a little bit leak out into his pants.

He made a sound, something too near a whimper to ever admit to, and Mr. Stark was looking at him again.

“I’m keeping it steady! Look! I’ve got this!”

That smile again. “Yes, I see that. You’re doing good. You sure you don’t need a break?”

“No!” It came out a squeak, but Peter was determined not to let Mr. Stark down. Besides, the leak had to have made some room, right? He could wait a little longer.

Two minutes later, Peter leaked again. He didn’t think he made a sound that time, but Mr. Stark still paused to study him for a moment. Peter made himself stop biting his lip, though his attempt at a reassuring smile felt weak and almost nauseated on his face.

A third leak quickly followed, and a fourth one, longer, that Peter actually heard hissing into his pants for a mortifying second. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look down and see how visible the stain must be. 

Mr. Stark’s warm, calloused hand on his shoulder startled a fifth leak out of him, but there was no censure of Peter in his voice when he spoke, only encouragement. “We’re almost done. Just a few minutes more.”

Peter jerked his head up and down in something approximating a nod and willed himself not to tremble. He could do this.

As promised, just a few endless minutes later there was a click and Mr. Stark was taking the pieces, solid once more, from Peter’s hands. Peter almost lost everything right then, the sudden shift in his balance nearly enough to swamp the tattered shreds of his control. He twisted his legs together and bent at the waist, wanting to bury his hands in his crotch but too embarrassed for that, so instead his hands stayed clenched into fists on his thighs.

That lasted only a moment, however, because Mr. Stark’s palm coming to rest gently on the small of his back was just too much – Peter had to grab himself because now he was peeing, helplessly, his sphincter giving out and only the clench of his hands on his dick stopping him from completely soaking his underwear, his jeans, and probably several feet of concrete floor around him.

Mr. Stark just rubbed his back, the opposite of soothing.

“You did good, Peter, now come on, let’s get you to the bathroom. Come on, it’s not far.”

Peter gasped and squeezed himself tighter as he felt some of the pee force its way out. “I can’t, I can’t, please, I can’t, help me—“

Mr. Stark patted him, forcing another jet into Peter’s hands, then brought a hand up to brush Peter’s hair back gently from his face. Peter opened his eyes again in surprise, and Tony smiled fully at him for the first time all day.

“Okay, I’ve got this. I’ll fix this for you.”

Peter moaned as more trickles made their way out of him, wondering dazedly why he was even bothering to hold on any longer when he had already wet himself. His eyes followed Tony as he strode across the room to bang things around in one of the bigger cabinets. Finding what he was looking for quickly, Peter blinked and suddenly Tony was back in front of him again, setting the thing down at Peter’s feet.

Peter’s eyes wouldn’t focus on it for a moment, then they did, and his brain said “bucket” and his bladder tried to give up entirely as Peter realized that even with this solution right here in front of him he was still going to pee himself because he couldn’t even spare the seconds it would take to get his pants unzipped.

He whimpered again, near tears. “Please, I need, but I can’t, help!”

Tony smiled again. “I told you, I’ll fix this.” And then his hands were on Peter’s, gently but inexorably prying them apart to get at his fly, ignoring the renewed stream gushing out of Peter’s dick. It wasn’t fair, Peter was still holding on with all his might, but still it kept coming out and getting all over _him_ and all over _Tony_ and—

And then he was free, free of the stiff and cooling denim and in the open air and pointed at the bucket at his feet and with a last whine high in his throat Peter gave up, letting himself go like he’d been wanting to do for forever, relaxing all his desperately tired muscles and peeing full force.

He swayed at the relief, and Tony stepped in closer to his side, the arm that wasn’t aiming Peter sliding around Peter’s waist to hold him steady. And suddenly Peter’s senses were full of Tony again, the kindness in his eyes, the steadiness of his breathing compared to Peter’s harsh pants, the smell of his cologne overlaying the light, clean sweat of a summer afternoon. The strength of his arm at Peter’s back and the gentleness of his fingers on Peter’s dick.

Peter got hard so fast he was dizzy with it, and worst of all it cut off his flow, making the pee he so desperately needed to get out sputter to a halt, so all he could feel was the pulse of his blood in his dick in counterpoint to the surging pressure of urine in his bladder.

“No no no no—“ his voice was high and squeaky and Peter couldn’t help the sob that came out on the last word.

Tony just chuckled low and rumbly against Peter’s side. “Right. Seventeen.”

Peter let out another choking sob and buried his face in Tony’s shoulder. “Please—“

“I’ve got you.”

And then his hand was moving, curling around Peter’s hard-on and sliding up and down, slick with Peter’s own pee and so light, so delicate, that Peter cried out again, the touch too much and too little all at once in his oversensitive state. But Tony just kept jacking him slowly, barely more than his fingertips sliding over Peter’s hard flesh, and desperately many and too few minutes later Peter was coming, spurting watery jizz all over the place, legs barely holding himself upright as he leaned even further into Tony’s chest.

He couldn’t tell exactly when the jizz turned to pee, but pretty soon he could hear his urine pouring into the bucket again. Tony adjusted Peter a little so that his chin wasn’t digging into Tony’s chest, but other than that remained steady for Peter to collapse into, bearing probably 90% of Peter’s weight as Peter focused on finally, finally getting his relief.


End file.
